Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Jo glides forward next, her expression haughty, her bearing proud and careless. Even I could believe she’s some rich brat with a penchant for criminal pursuits.
“We were told you might be able to help us with something … specific.”
A slight pause. The air shifts. She has his interest now. Delacroix studies her, not lasciviously, not crudely, but intellectually. He is likely measuring whether he thinks she has enough money to make a discussion of this kind worth his time.
“And who told you such a thing, Madame?”
I answer before she can. Calm. Controlled. “Mr. Rousseau in Geneva.”
I have never personally met Mr. Rousseau in Geneva, but the name lands. Not recognition, but possibility. Delacroix’s expression changes by half a degree. “You are not tourists.”
“No,” I reply.
“And you are not collectors of casual means.”
“No.”
He raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Law enforcement, perhaps?”
Jo lets out a quiet laugh. “Do we look like law enforcement?”
His eyes flick between us. “No, but one can never be too careful in my line of work.”
“We’re not,” I assure him. “We prefer discretion,” I add smoothly.
“As do we all.”
The studied silence stretches for a second longer, then he gestures towards the walls of the gallery. “Do you admire modernist works?”
Jo moves toward a framed drawing on the wall, tilting her head thoughtfully.
“We’re interested in a particular Gainsborough.”
There it is. He doesn’t react. That, in itself, is a reaction.
“Many people are interested in Gainsborough.”
“This one is … unavailable,” I say.
“Ahhh… unavailable,” he echoes.
“It’s a piece from his blue period,” Jo continues smoothly. “Wooded landscape with cattle and a peasant resting. Somber palette.”
Her voice is casual. Informed, but not overeager. He watches her more closely now. “You have excellent taste, Madame.”
“I’m aware. Now, are you going to drop this charade, or has Monsieur Rousseau informed us incorrectly about your credentials?”
He folds his hands in front of him. “Perhaps you would care to join me in my office.”
Jo gives a barely perceptible nod. We wait while he goes and flicks the lock on the front door and turns the open sign to read closed. Wordless, we follow Delacroix through an unmarked door and down a short, bare hallway. He reaches what looks like a dead end, but he reaches up and pushes on the wall and a very well concealed door disguised as wall paneling swings open. Delacroix goes inside and we follow him. The door closes automatically behind us. The room is sound proofed, the proofing given away by the complete lack of any echo when the door closes. The room is dimly lit from above with no windows. In the center is a single antique desk with a computer chair behind it and two leather chairs opposite it. On one wall, a sideboard with crystal decanters and glasses sits.
He has judged us worthy, it seems. This is where truths bend, and real multi-million-dollar deals are done.
He walks around the desk and takes his seat, gesturing at Jo and me to sit down in the other two. We do, and I lean back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, showing relaxed dominance.
“You have the painting we seek.”
It isn’t a question, although, as a statement, I know it is wrong. I have to play this just right. For a long moment, he says nothing.
“I believe I had it at one time. A year or so ago,” he replies evenly. “A piece matching that description passed briefly through my possession.”
Jo’s pulse jumps. I see it in the faint shift of her throat, but I am confident Delacroix won’t notice it.
“And?” she asks lightly.
“It is no longer available.”
“It has been sold?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
A faint smile curves his lips.
“I do not share client identities.”
“Of course not,” I say. “But I believe if you made an exception this time, the buyer would be pleased because we are willing to make a very generous offer for the right piece.”
“The client is a collector not a dealer. They won’t sell.”
He waits to see what I will do with that. I’m not going to go further down this path because, truthfully, I don’t care who bought it from Delacroix. I care who sold it to him. I just don’t want to make that obvious.
“Where did you get it?” I ask, keeping my voice measured, casual.
There it is. The question that matters.
His eyes cool. “Provenance in certain circles is … fluid.”
“Fluid is not the same as not existing.”
He doesn’t answer. Jo leans forward slightly, putting her elbows on the desk. “We understand discretion, Monsieur Delacroix. We understand completely. But the painting did not surface through … traditional channels.”
His gaze sharpens. “And how would you know that?”
She smiles faintly. “Because if it had, we would have acquired it already.”
A flicker of appreciation passes across his face. He enjoys competence.
“It came to me through a private intermediary,” he says carefully.